Flood
by klepto510
Summary: Goku & Vegeta are having a sleepless night, and the prince decides to pay the other man a late-night visit.  One-shot; shounen-ai.


**_Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Ball or any affiliated mediums, and I do not financially profit from this endeavor. If I did own the franchise, this would be the only addition to the entire world of Dragon Ball._**

**_Author's Note: This idea initially had the goal of jogging my concepts for my other creative pursuits, and while I never intended it to come so closely to the 6000 word mark, I am happy that it has finally come to fruition. A personal obstacle that I gave myself was to refrain from explicitly using names, but I don't believe that it will be too difficult to distinguish the points-of-view. I do not intend to write anything beyond this particular fanfic. So, I hope that those who read this will enjoy it immensely._**

**_So without further ado, I present to you my one-and-only shot._**

* * *

><p><em>DRIP<em>

It happened again. He awoke in the middle of the night; tears streaming down his cheeks, saturating his pillows, his thoughts drowning in misery. And he had always wondered what triggered it. It could have possibly been caused by his sense of failure—as a friend, a father, a husband, a warrior. Or perhaps it was the relentless waves of loneliness that slowly, and finally, eroded and stripped away his emotional armor. The fact that he woke to nothing but an empty space beside him; that he felt a deep sense of longing, coursing through his mind.

As he got up in order to gaze into the star-filled sky, he knew what exactly caused the gradual weathering.

"That damned fusion…" he hopelessly recognized.

He winced at the thought, fighting back the tears threatening to manifest themselves once more, but to no avail; they fell despite his efforts. What little repose he possessed collapsed in on itself, yet his false pride did not allow him to completely yield to his changing emotional currents. His frame stood up only out of habit, for he always drew upon an illusory strength; a fragile and hollow belief in his power, giving him a faint sense of stability and security, anchoring him.

It had been a regular fixture in his thoughts ever since they merged their bodies and their minds—only to have that oneness severed, after its purpose was fulfilled. The fusion far exceeded any form of intimacy; it was something more akin to rupturing one another's existence, having the other's thoughts and memories bleed into one's mind, _becoming_ each other. It was a closeness for which his body longed; that he had to recreate. And ever since the separation six years ago, he was only able to think of how he drifted through life by himself; how empty he had always felt; how he _needed_ that closeness again.

_DRIP_

Because of nights such as this one, he grew to dislike the night, and the alleged blissful sleep that was supposed to accompany it. He felt alone in the darkness. And though there was no external threat, the greatest peril was, perhaps, the thoughts that flowed in and out of his mind; the thoughts from which he could not protect himself: his self-doubt, his self-criticism, and his self-loathing.

Why hadn't he felt this way during the day?

The answer was obvious to him: it was simply a matter of being seen. In other words, he was physically exposed during the day; his image and his form were under constant visual scrutiny, waiting for the first crack to form on his armor. He needed to protect himself, to feel safe. So, he was forced to maintain the impression of his austerity, and stoicism; blurring the way he was perceived. And he was successful. People believed the emotionless persona he projected—so much so that even he had believed in his own indifference as well.

Though, he absolutely hated the way he carried himself through the day. Yet, the nightfall provided little solace, because the eventide meant that he was forced to fight a losing battle—against the unpredictable swells and surges of his emotions. In the blackness, he was emotionally exposed; and stood and fought alone, wrestling against an unfamiliar and undetected enemy that he always failed to stave off.

There was a conflict within himself, a disconnection between his thoughts from his wants; his persona from his personality; his mind from his heart. A constant pushing-and-pulling pit his mind against his heart—his mind ebbing at his emotions, but his emotions rushing through his mind. They antagonized each other, but simultaneously, they operated in perfection: complete harmony in total discord. But it was all becoming too much to bear; too much to endure quietly.

_DRIP_

To quell the overflowing emotions, he stood in front of his window, looking out at the glittering sea above him, hoping; hoping that he can lose himself, that he can remove himself from his deeply-sunken need. Then, at the majestic moon, shining its pale light onto the world—onto the lonesome prince, whose bruised heart poured pain, but whose steeled mind locked away the flowing torrent that heaved in his heart. Yet, like the other nights, the heavens failed to soothe the wounds that had opened again.

So, he slipped on his black spandex outfit, his pristine gloves, and his boots; he decided that, perhaps, a small trip out during a warm summer night, such as this, could calm his restless thoughts.

* * *

><p>Another sleepless night that involved staring at the ceiling above him. And though he knew the answer, he always wondered why his sleeps have become more and more scarce, let alone less invigorating. To his left, his wife laid facing him, fast asleep, her ebon hair gracefully pouring over her face; he reached out with his right hand to move her ink tresses away, tucking them behind her ear so as to see the woman who had given him life's treasures.<p>

Her face tightened, conveying a faintly disturbed slumber. He removed his hand in response. A wide, warm smile spread across his face, because this was the woman with whom he had shared a great portion of his life; this was the woman whom he had loved. He was thankful for her, for always putting his—and her family's—needs before her own; she had put up with his constant departures, infrequent reappearances, and even death. And he was even more grateful for the fact that she had always reciprocated, willingly—and not out of obligation.

But she knew, as well as he did, that their romantic relationship had waned into something more complacent, more amicable, a few years ago. It had become a deep friendship, and though it disappointed them in the beginning, both parties accepted that they were happier with one another as close friends, instead of as romantic partners. They _loved_ each other, but they were no longer _lovers_—in any sense of the word.

He was content with the way things were because they were, in fact, closer than before. Even though they were "husband-and-wife" by title, their lives continued exactly the way they were. With the exception of romance, of course; which was replaced by deep conversation, friendly advice, and, ultimately, someone on whom they relied for complete and unconditional support.

Even still, his nights were always filled by lying awake, feeling vacuous; as though part of him was entirely absent.

"The fusion…" he resignedly recalled, grimacing at the memory.

Since then, he had felt different, and he was certain that the other experienced the same ache; to escape the inherent loneliness that resulted from their separation. The thought of recapturing that closeness they felt toward one another crossed their minds on several occasions, he was sure. But something had always made him reluctant.

Peeling away the sheets, he sat on the edge of the bed; contemplating about a means to pacify his agitated mind. After shifting into his gi, he strolled toward the living room, falling onto the couch; completely stretched out, head thrown back, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He let out a defeated sigh. There were too many possibilities, and each one seemed likely.

Maybe he was not forward enough? Maybe…he feared the truth—so much so that he hesitated to take things further. Had he taken the initiative, he always felt as though the elder would lash out, since the prince's behavior had become so erratic and unpredictable as of late. Or maybe, neither of them was in the right state of mind to fully commit; because, after all, they had their own families to which they were already devoted, and the prince seemed to always regard their relationship as a rivalry in front of their friends.

Though, the prince would sometimes forego their—but mostly his own—senseless rivalry, because their sparring sessions said something different. And the longer sparring sessions, which had become more and more frequent in the past three years, followed a particular pattern. They met each other on equal terms to start. But eventually, their exchanges would become complementary, with kicks met by punches, and punches met by kicks; one took the lead while the other followed, and sometimes, the roles unintentionally, and without resistance, reversed all through the spar: they created order in their chaos. And their sessions evoked—even slightly—that intimacy that the two men needed from one another.

There had been countless instances, many of which happened in the last three months, when their spars had gone toward completely unexpected directions. Their blows would finally conclude with the two of them grappling; hands entwined, peering at each other in absolute determination, their tenacity reaching its apex—until, finally, one pinned the other to the floor, the resolve fading from their frames. Yet, they temporarily fixed in that position, locking their gazes at one another, silent. Asking for, hoping for—_inviting_—any touch beyond the exchange of blows, touch that could convey their deep need for the other's affection.

Whenever that did happen, the Earth-born was never slow to react, because he knew. He knew that they both wanted it, that the elder always fell short of explicitly communicating his emotions. Intuitively, he always responded in kind, wrapping his arms around the terse fighter, fully aware that his actions articulated a message that words could not. And they would just lay there, their bodies flushed against each other; flesh against flesh, breaths synchronized, hearts beating in tune, in total silence. They felt, finally, peace of mind from their healing embrace.

Yet, even though he was happy by recalling the feelings from their sparring sessions, the younger's heart wrenched, because he was confused. When the two fighters were alone, he knew that he was in the elder's favor; but otherwise, they were fierce rivals, whose alleged purpose was to outdo the other. His mind understood the prince's reasoning, but unfortunately, his heart was not as successful; part of him was in the light, while the other part was in the dark.

He wanted the elder to explicitly say how he felt, no matter how undervalued it might sound. But at the same time…he was in no position to demand that from the prince, because he, after all, repeatedly failed to gather the courage to say it himself; to bring himself and take things further than they were.

Tears had built up in his eyes, about to fall, but successfully blinked back. He just wished that things were easier to solve; that any sort of progress in what they felt toward each other would not take so long. Why was this a maze in which he constantly felt lost? Why had both of them taken so long in realizing their deep longing for one another?

Letting out a choked sigh, he resolved to go back to bed again, feeling discouraged and mentally worn—something with which he has become very well-acquainted lately. That is, until he saw a figure outside his window, sitting at the mouth of the creek and staring into the distance.

Instinctively, he walked toward the unexpected visitor, feeling his heart grow lighter with each step that took him closer and closer.

* * *

><p>He was both right and wrong; right in that his heart was calmer, more at ease; but wrong because the closer he was to his destination, his mind became more anxious. But he knew—and chided himself for his apprehension. He knew what the younger fighter felt for him, but he still felt as though he was left in the dark; as though he needed more reassurance in order to feel at peace. Perhaps he was creating a current against which he had to run, he thought. Perhaps there was, in fact, nothing standing in his way except himself; seeing black where things were white, creating storms during the calm.<p>

His face contorted faintly, displaying the gloom that had washed over him. So, he stopped midflight, a little more than halfway toward his intended destination, feeling overwhelmed as he laid his feet upon the floor. If he wanted to turn around and go home, then there was absolutely nothing preventing him from doing that now. And there it was again, his reservations, corroding at his determination.

_DRIP_

No. He had been searching for definite answers, and he could not wait any longer to finally know. Sighing heavily in order to collect himself, he decided on walking the rest of the way there. And it was relatively easy to find his way; simply follow the creek upstream, and it would lead where he wanted—_needed_—to be.

With every step, he could not help but feel a little sluggish, as though he was striding—as much as one can stride—through a current that went against him. He understood why, though. Fear had frozen him; fear of wasted efforts; fear of reaching out, only to discover that there was no one to grab hold of him. Each step felt heavy, and his thoughts shouted at him to return, and to leave things the way they were; because if he had interfered, then everything could only become worse. But he quickly shook off his hesitancies, unwavering to overcome his self-doubt.

The prince had not known how he suddenly, or perhaps slowly, drifted toward the gentle youth over the years, but he knew why. Since his wife had left this plane of existence three years ago, he had disengaged from the world around him and everyone in it, even his own children.

_DRIP_

And the way she had gone was mocking, to say the least: a brain aneurysm. The irony was not lost on anyone; that her brain, the apparatus behind her wild success and unequaled intellect, became the engine that led her to life's ultimate conclusion.

In spite of the gravity of the situation, he chuckled as he walked along the stream. She had always said that the only person who could kill her would be herself; and it seemed that, even in death, she was correct.

It was because of her that he saw everyone, though it had always been out of sheer obligation, for the blue-eyed genius had thrown her regular parties, inviting all of her friends. After her passing, he had lost any connection—any reason, that is—to see, let alone talk to, the others any longer; and he was sure that his absence made little difference during their gatherings.

But the naïve fighter, who was initially met by determined resistance, had gradually drawn the stubborn prince out from the spiraling vortex in which he was caught. It was typical in the beginning, starting with their regular sparring sessions, which had been entirely on-hold since his wife departed; though, he felt something in him had been extinguished since she involuntarily left.

Then, their activities evolved into something that did not include any kind of fighting at all: meals; walks; exercises; outdoor trips; sightseeing on the pathetic planet he grew to love; a festival, after which he vowed he would never attend another; even their usual and traditional gatherings, at which he actually interacted with those whom he could now call his friends; and, finally, conversations that did not have any traces of scathing sarcasm, or any touch of superiority—most of which were spent alone with one person.

The one person in whom he confided, and for whom he also felt a strong, inexplicable rush of affection. The one person whose remote house had come into full view, the anxiety returning; but this time, complemented by repose.

_DRIP_

But his heart, again, was frostbitten by the absolute dread that kept him company throughout his excursion. And the closer he approached the tiny cottage, the more he scolded himself for doing something with such little thought. He stopped at the front of the door, mechanically lifting his right arm to knock—but fell short just there.

His doubts, once more, swam through his mind; telling him to stop, to give up, to accept things for the way they were. He should not even be there, since it is so late. He had no idea if the other man was awake, let alone alert enough to give him answers to the questions he had been asking himself. And if he did not receive the response he wanted from the other, then he came for absolutely nothing.

While his heart encouraged him to proceed, his mind, in the end, won—again.

_DRIP_

Turning away from the door, he felt a swelling sense of disappointment, directed at himself. Once again, he failed to summon the courage to finally know how the younger man felt toward him. As he walked toward the creek, he let his gaze trail along the overgrown floor, head hanging low.

He set himself on the balmy earth near the creek, letting his legs dangle just above the surface, watching the current stream away in the distance; toward the direction in which he would have to go in order to return to his empty home, the direction in which, he knew, he would feel vexed by his constant, and possibly self-inflicted, loneliness. So, perhaps, it would not be too troublesome to stay a little longer, because peace of mind is what he needed tonight.

The crescent moon in the dim sky caught his attention. The moon, somehow, captivated him; the way it lit up the nocturnal world; the way it perfected the ethereal image above him; the way it cleanly sliced through the velvet sky, its presence entirely anomalous yet completely belonging. Letting out a slow exhale, his eyes returned to the whispering brook, hoping that it could provide some kind of consolation.

_DRIP_

Behind him, he heard something click, and his entire frame tensed at the noise; he held his gaze on the watercourse. He knew. And he wanted to take off.

* * *

><p>Carefully closing the door, he kept his eyes locked on the figure in front of him, because he knew who it was; though, he had no idea why. But he felt happy—overjoyed, in fact—that the older man had decided to make a surprised visit so late in the night. Maybe now, he could find some sort of respite in his chaotic thoughts. Maybe now, he could finally tell the other exactly how he had been feeling.<p>

Gingerly, he slowly moved toward the prince, noticing that the other man seemed like he was drifting in the labyrinth of his own thoughts. Involuntarily, the Earthen youth stopped several steps behind the elder, feeling as though an invisible armor had been constructed around the one person he wanted to see.

After waiting several seconds, he softly summoned a simple question that would not startle the older man, breaching the mute distance between them, the silent rampart that saturated their environment. "Peaceful, isn't it?"

"Very," the prince responded, speech hoary, his gaze still on the stream. He did not seem caught off-guard at all.

"You couldn't sleep tonight, could you?"

"No," the curt man muttered, voice low and dull, drawing his legs inward to hug them.

"I couldn't either," he confessed, smiling a little while rubbing the back of his head. "There have been a lot of things on my mind, but that's nothing new."

"You mean, things other than eating and fighting?" the prince teased, eliciting a small laugh from the younger. The elder couldn't help but smile, either. He went on, purposefully, and with sincerity, suggesting a solution, "Perhaps talking about it would help ease your thoughts."

He turned his head away from the creek, his darkened profile in full view, the darkness both veiling and uncovering his somber face; inviting the taller fighter to join him near the water; inviting him to cross into the unfathomable depth in which the prince felt lost.

The Third-class was pleasantly shocked at the older man's request, and immediately sat just to the left of the laconic warrior—sit just a few inches apart, he thought, making sure not to make the prince uncomfortable—with his legs stretched out, one over the other, leaning back on his hands for support. He looked toward the moon while the other still stared into the water, seeming as though he was drawing comfort from the rushing brook.

"What is it that is troubling you?" he was asked, as soon as he found himself in a relaxed position.

He sighed in response, somehow letting out his frustrations, "I don't know," pausing for a moment before continuing. "It's a lot of things, really. Everything just feels like they've been jumbled together, but also like they're completely scattered. I just don't know where—or how—to start."

"You can begin at the most immediate subject matter. In other words, you should talk about what has kept you awake tonight," the prince encouraged. "As for how you should start, try talking about it, and overlook making any sense of it all." He rested his head against his legs, turning his gaze toward the gentle man, spurring him on.

The Earthen man replied, staring fixedly at the sable sky, "I think…tonight, specifically, it's about my relationship with Chi-Chi…"

"I recall that both of you reached a mutual understanding; that you both have been far happier with the way things are now."

"Oh, we definitely are better off than before. But I can't help but feel so guilty about how it happened..."

"Guilty?"

"Yeah, I mean…I put her through so much—fights, disappearances, and death! And each time, she'd always understand. But deep down, I knew that she hated that part about me; the part that was obsessed with being the savior, which made her an afterthought," the younger morosely confided, his remorse completely evident. "I know we're much happier now than we've been in a long time, but I still feel ashamed about the fact that I couldn't be something more."

Pensive, the prince paused, collecting his thoughts before speaking. "I believe that she has let go of that aspect of your shared past. Judging from the parties alone, she seems more cheerful and carefree; she even talks to me," the elder joked. "And everyone else has absolved you of it as well. I think it is simply a matter of your learning how to forgive yourself."

"As if anyone could criticize the man who saved the world several times over," the younger quipped in return, both of them chuckling. "But…you're right. Maybe it's about time that I got over it."

A shy, though noticeable, grin formed across the youth's face as he finally peeled his eyes away from the sky, looking at the other man. This was exactly why he enjoyed the older saiyan's company so much. He was much lighter after divulging whatever trivial problem he was experiencing, but the prince's input had taken a more good-humored approach since his wife passed away; an approach that calmed his mind, that left him feeling like he had been liberated from an enormous burden.

The shorter of the two turned away, obviously feeling slightly nervous even though his voice sounded steady. "At what are you smiling?"

"At how much I'm enjoying another sleepless night," he answered, happy. "It was a pleasant surprise to find you sitting outside my front door. Now it's your turn: what are you doing up so late? And what are you doing here, of all places?"

The prince hesitated before speaking, staring into the distance.

The taller promptly apologized, realizing his mistake as soon as the questions left his thoughts. "You don't have to answer my questions if you don't want to…" he added for good measure. He just _had_ to be presumptuous and ask.

"It's quite all right," the flame-haired fighter reassured him. "It's that…" he trailed off. "I usually am awake throughout much of the evening, with thoughts rushing through my mind. So in order to be at peace, I believed that going somewhere peaceful would be where I would find it. I have honestly grown to dislike the night."

The naïve Earth-born nodded at his explanation. "Why is that you don't like the night?" he gently asked, eyes still fixed on the elder, seeing his entire frame vaguely take on a defeated form at the question. He did not look like he wanted to say why he hated the nightfall so much.

"At night," he began after a brief silence. "At night, I realize that…I am alone."

The younger cautiously probed, hoping that the prince would not get up and leave because of his line of questioning. "But…I always thought you preferred to be alone?"

The elder confirmed the younger man's question. "There is a difference, though," he added. "I prefer to be _left_ alone, but I do not wish to _be_ alone… The night always reminds me that my life is hollow; that—" he choked, his voice submerged in a pool of emotions. "That I wrestle…_alone_…in the dark—in the deep dark; and…that no one can truly understand or empathize."

The air felt heavy after the elder explained himself. And it looked like something—something unknown, but evident—had changed the prince's appearance; like something had cracked, revealing a wound that had been torn open again, exposing how truly vulnerable he was.

Subconsciously, the gentle saiyan reached out toward the older man, tenderly draping his right arm around the other's waist, pulling him closely against his body, meaning to soothe the pain he felt in his trembling voice; the shorter laying his head on the younger man's shoulder.

* * *

><p><em>DRIP<em>

Part of him knew that this would happen, which is why he wanted to leave. But the other part demanded that he stay, so that he was no longer in the dark. And now, his mental resistance had begun yielding to the erratic surges in his heart; his control over his emotions had begun wearing down.

Even though he found the taller man's warmth reassuring, it sent a conflicting chill through his body, a shudder that rippled throughout his mind and his heart; that finally pierced his armor, and racked his entire constitution. Something told him to pull away and leave, but he so badly wanted, and needed, this; this warmth, this security, this _closeness_. He needed this awful _longing_ to end, once and for all.

_DRIP_

"But…" he whispered , tightening his hold on the prince, hesitating to continue. "I don't think you're alone at all. You might not have Bulma any longer, but everyone else is still here with you—for you. And I'll always be supporting you, whether you realize it or not."

_DRIP_

For a moment, both fighters were mute, allowing silence to dominate their conversation; the shorter did not want to speak, out of fear that his wayward heart would heave with more forcefulness, more vehemence, if he spoke. In contrast, he knew that the man holding him was quiet, because he understood that the older saiyan needed a moment to collect himself before becoming overwhelmed by his emotions. And even though the obvious was stated, it was consoling, somehow.

"I also believe…" the elder began, faltering. "I also believe that since we were separated from the fusion, this feeling has intensified."

_DRIP_

Wincing, the memory summoned up the emotions he had been experiencing the entire night; the ones he had unsuccessfully tried to bury. The younger's entire body shuddered at the revelation, and he took that as a cue; an indication that they had traced it back to that very moment of their separation, that they both had been feeling the same way; the same loneliness that drowned each night, the same longing that coursed through their minds and their hearts, the same conflict of emotions that kept both of them from revealing what they had been feeling toward each other.

"And the truth is…" he muttered, hesitating, his heart full of absolute dread as he stopped in the middle of his sentence. His heart strained, and he could not bring himself to tell the truth to the younger man.

_DRIP_

"The truth is that you have constantly been on my mind, and I lie awake every night, thinking about how badly I need you; about how empty I feel. I had been hinting…for years now," he confessed, and hoped for the best; for his desired response.

Even while he remained lying against the Earth-born, he felt as though a deep rift had opened between them, because the quiet only added to his trepidations. And still, nothing was done, nothing was said, nothing was heard; but he felt his fears grow, his apprehensions scolding him, his doubts confirmed. And he felt defeated, broken, and, above all, alone; so terribly alone; so terribly disheartened—all in the silence, in the dark, and in the other man's embrace.

_DRIP_

Unaware, his eyes were brimming with tears cascading down his face, falling onto the other man's gi, forming dark pools at the sites on which they fell; dark pools that indicated the rippling grief he had been feeling, the consuming unhappiness that had engulfed him, leaving him just barely afloat on tides that pushed—and pulled—and crashed—against the walls of his life, the walls that prevented him from being happy. So he laid there, weeping, wanting to leave, but lacking the willpower to depart; lacking the mental resilience to contain the deluge of emotions that was pouring, from every fiber of his existence.

But then, he felt himself being pulled toward the body that had been supporting him, toward the man whom he needed all this time.

_DRIP_

* * *

><p>Seeing the prince's despair billow throughout his frame, the gentle man heard a speechless and primal request that pleaded for comfort, unconsciously drawing him in closer, because he had been feeling the same, too; the elder's fears, doubts, and misery—he felt the same emotions, echoing throughout his cavernous mind, reverberating in his hollowed heart, rumbling against the empty stability he possessed. His grip grew tighter, holding on to the man in his arms, afraid that he would lose what he was embracing, afraid that he would lose himself; so he anchored himself to the smaller man against his body, hoping that he could draw strength from his contact, that he could prevent from collapsing in on himself.<p>

But his body trembled violently, shaking the mental resolve to stay calm and collected. And the two fighters stayed locked in that position, the youth holding the elder, both swept away by the waves of their own heartaches; but drifted together, toward one another, because of their shared throes.

"I'm sorry," the younger began, whispering, cutting cleanly through the awful silence that only intensified the pangs they had been feeling.

"For what?" the other choked, his speech thick with emotion. "You have done nothing wrong."

But he felt as if he did, as if he was the source of the prince's pain.

"For everything," he explained. "For not noticing earlier, for not hearing your requests; for not telling you…that I've felt the same since we separated; that I've needed you, too."

At the confession, he felt the elder's body recoil, and without thinking, he grasped the prince's limp left hand with his right—still holding him in closely around the waist; threading their fingers together, and squeezing lightly—so as to satisfy, and express, the deep affection they had been feeling toward each other. The comforting man rested his head on the prince's crown, the forest of his hair brushing softly along the taller's skin, emanating a distinct scent that put his mind and his heart at ease.

He nestled the elder's locks, apologizing again for his obliviousness, his lack of attention; and hoping, for the best, that the man he was holding would return his affections, would give him a cue that told him something—anything. Yet, the prince was passive, striking fear into him, a fear that grew and beat against the walls of his heart, threatening to shatter what little repose he had seized.

Subtly, but clearly, the man in his arms pushed himself more deeply into the youth's embrace, and his outpouring came to a gradual halt, the pool of his emotions becoming still, as motionless as the sweltering summer air. The royal's breathing calmed, coming in and going out; in tandem with the man who was holding him, he felt, the Third-class's breaths gently touching his skin in rotations, rhythmically alongside the prince's breathing patterns.

"This is exactly what I have wanted and needed," the shorter finally said, shattering the stagnant hush. "I had always been so scared, so incredibly terrified, that you never felt the same for me."

The younger agreed, holding him tighter, lightly nuzzling his hair again. "But now you know," he added, lifting himself from the prince's hair, affectionately observing the man whom he was holding; the elder's gaze was fixed ahead of him.

Turning toward the taller man, he looked at him directly with his onyx eyes.

"Yes, I do," he confirmed and promptly brought their lips together, perfecting a kiss that emulated the closeness they once felt.

It remained simple, but it still satisfied the intense longing they had been feeling, quelling both their hearts. And when they pulled away, they assumed their previous position, with the Third-class cradling the prince, both resting against the other; breaths in unison, hearts in sync, minds on the same wavelength.

They both attained the closeness they needed, and the flood of affection—and of love—swept them away, together, throughout the night: the night when they finally found peace, in one another's embrace.

FIN


End file.
